Before the tea turns bitter

(can’t take our faith from us)

𝙵𝚎𝚍𝚎

8–8–7–5–5–4–3–2–1–0, we are alive.

(قصة)

“By the sky with the constellations.” - 85:1

200°F

My Qur’an, he tells me again

“wa hum ‘ala ma yaf‘aluna

bil-mu’minina shuhud.”

His eyes holding both

fire and gentleness this time.

That, victory in Islam

isn’t always about surviving.

It’s about submission,

but not the kind they

demand at the end of a gun.

It’s the boy, he clarifies.

The boy who taught a king,

a tyrant how to kill him.

“Say: In the name of Allah,

the Lord of the boy.”

And then when

the arrow left the bow,

they believed, all of them, as if the boy’s fall lifted the veil from their eyes.

That was victory.

Not in the boy’s breath,

but in the belief that

emerged from his death

Sudden, certain, like

light breaking through

a night long held in silence.

And for years I thought

power was about control,

but here we have a king

fallen, completely in error.

---

Infusion

As always,

history moves in circles.

Now, Gaza is this boy;

Its martyrs, children, mothers,

strangers known better by the heavens.

With every bomb that falls,

more hearts across oceans cry out,

“There is no god but Allah.”

Not out of flout or confusion

but because the truth keeps

rising from beneath the rubble,

clearer than before.

And if the world can still look away,

it is only because they do not see (i+) yet:

That victory is not

always in what is spared,

but in what is revealed

when everything else is taken.

And sometimes,

Allah writes the end of your story

so others can begin theirs

on the pages of your sacrifice.

Since October 7, 2023, there has been a notable increase in interest in Islam, particularly among young Western women on platforms like TikTok. Hashtags such as #revert, #RevertMuslim, and #MuslimRevert have garnered billions of views, reflecting a surge in individuals exploring or embracing the faith. While precise statistics are challenging to ascertain, reports suggest a significant rise in conversions, with some sources indicating a 400% increase in Europe since the onset of the Gaza conflict.

75°F

Before the tea turns bitter,

before the warmth

of this moment withers

before the cries

fade into whispers,

let your hands move.

Let your voice carry.

Let your heart remember,

what the boy taught his killer:

That truth, once known, demands witness.

That belief, once awakened, must act.

And that silence,

when the world is burning,

is the only true death.

Not this, the martyrs are alive.

As tea cools, tannins and compounds rise, oxidizing into bitterness. Heat holds the harmony. The same is true for Palestine: left to cool, it curdles into silence. Fight now, while it’s still warm.

For all of us

Jamal Mahmoud / 0 / years old

died of hunger in his mother’s arms

Fatima Al-Masri / 1 / year old

born with a hole in her heart

Mohammed Al-Gharabli / 2 / years old

a missile struck the mosque, killing him

Reem Ali / 3 / years old

the soul of my soul

Ruqaya Jahalin / 4 / years old

shot in the back

Luna Abu-Nada / 5 / years old

survived by her father

Hind Rajab / 5 / years old

died in a vehicle explosion

Sidra Hassouna / 7 / years old

hanging by a wall of a damaged building

Hanin Jumaa / 8 / years old

died of starvation due to calcium deficiency

Tila Hamdan / 8 / years old

found in the rubble of Khan Younis

For all of us, their sacrifice is written in the spaces between the world we knew and the world we lost.

8–8–7–5–5–4–3–2–1–0, we are alive.

We are not statistics.

We are the lullabies left humming in empty rooms.

The birthdays that never came,

the crayons left untouched,

the prayers whispered through rubble and dust.

We are not numbers.

We are Jamal / 0 / fed only silence. Wrapped in warmth that could not keep him, his hunger louder than his pulse.

We are Fatima / 1 / born with a hole in her heart, beating long enough to remind the world of tenderness.

We are Mohammed / 2 / caught beneath the dome of a shattered mosque, his name carried upward before he ever learned how to pronounce it.

We are Reem / 3 / the soul of my soul, a light too far for this world to reach.

We are Ruqaya / 4 / whose giggle still echoes in broken alleys.

We are Luna / 5 / like the moon, too delicate to endure, eventually overwhelmed by the light of the sun.

We are Hind / 5 / whose name was called, but never returned.

We are Sidra / 7 / meant to swing beneath fig trees, not amidst broken stones.

We are Hanin / 8 / starving, as the world feasts on distraction.

We are Tila / 8 / cradled by Khan Younis’ rubble, a seed the earth wasn’t ready for.

We are not who you say we are. We are Ash-sham, we are Filastin.

---

The Story of the boy and the king:

Imagine a land ruled by a king who wore false divinity like a crown, drunk on power and terrified of truth. He ordered loyalty not to justice, but to himself. But Allah had other plans, as He always does.

There was a boy chosen by the king’s magician to carry on the craft. On his path to becoming a tool of darkness, he encountered a monk.

An old man tucked away from power, who whispered into the boy’s heart a name more powerful than magic: Allah.

Torn between two worlds, the boy discovered something deeper than power, faith. And with it, came miracles. Not his, but Allah’s. The blind began to see, the sick were healed. The people believed. The king panicked.

The king tried to kill the boy again and again—rocks, cliffs, beasts, but faith made the boy untouchable. Until the boy turned and said, “You want to kill me? Fine. But gather the people. And say it yourself: ‘In the name of Allah, the Lord of the boy.’”

And the king did.

The arrow struck.

The boy fell.

And like wildfire, belief spread.

Enraged, the king ordered trenches dug, (أصحاب الأخدود), lit with fire. One by one, believers were cast into the flames. Mothers with children. Men with trembling hands. All for saying: “Allah is my Lord.”

قُتِلَ أَصْحَابُ الْأُخْدُودِ

“Destroyed were the people of the trench.”

— 85:4

But Allah was watching. Not a soul burned except that He counted them among the martyrs. Not a cry was heard except it rose to the Throne.

This wasn’t a tale of death. It was a story of legacy, of a boy whose final breath whispered truth, and whose soul ignited a fire that carved faith into the very bones of the earth, like Bilad al-sham.

“We are alive.” - /8/8/7/5/5/4/3/2/1/0/